


Making it Home

by BearHatter



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Action, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:50:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1889055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BearHatter/pseuds/BearHatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John does what he does best: survives, despite the odds. And finds something extra he never expected at the end of his journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making it Home

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone to gave me feedback or kudos on my last work in the fandom/pairing! It really inspired me to finish this one; it's not quite as... I don't know, pairing focused? But it's kind of how I picture how it could actually have happened. (In the earlier seasons, which are the happiest and comfiest for me to write in.)

_I’m not trying to stop a hurricane_

_I’m not trying to shake the ground below_

_I’m just trying to find a way_

_to make it back home._

-“Home” by American Authors

 

 

John has a talent for dying. Actually, not dying, but the other thing. Living. Or at least surviving. But it’s not just that he survives, it’s that he survives even when he should be dead, even when everyone else thinks he’s dead. He couldn’t tell you how many times people have been surprised he was even alive.

            It didn’t just start in Atlantis, either. He’d disappeared behind many a ball of flame in Afghanistan, hiked his way out of many a desert, scared many a commanding officer out of his pants just by being alive.

            It sounded cooler than it was, really. Yeah, he was glad he had a tendency to not-die, but what he had to go through was no picnic. And maybe it was childish of him, but when he came back… all the welcome he ever got was a slap on the back after the shock and awe were done, and once, plenty of paperwork to revoke his death status.

            When he got back to Nancy once after 6 months of being dead, she had given him tremulous smiles and apologies and divorce papers. His point was, there wasn’t always a whole lot to come back _to._

            These are just things to think about as he hangs in a Wraith cocoon.

            “Rodney was right: these are comfortable,” he mused aloud, amusing himself and hopefully annoying the guard. You got your kicks where you could, when you were in a Wraith cocoon. “I gotta say, I haven’t encountered this particular interrogation style before. Usually it’s all, ‘we’re taking you to our leader,’ and then some queen tries to rifle through my skull. So this is a pleasant change, really. I’m not complaining. You wouldn’t be offended if I took a nap, would you?”

            The guard was one of those faceless drones, so it was hard to tell if he was annoyed or not, but John got a satisfactory _I will kill you_ vibe as the guard turned to glare at him. Without eyes. Anyway.

            “Well, maybe not.” Pretending to nap wouldn’t be nearly as fun—and that was saying something, as he wasn’t normally a talker. “You know, one time this queen was trying to pull whatever she wanted out of my brain, and I gave her all the Spongebob Squarepants I could think of.” He paused significantly. “I’ve seen a lot of Spongebob.” Late at night when he couldn’t sleep, back in the day. “I think it just confused her; you Wraith really need to work on your sense of humor…”

            He wasn’t just babbling idly, of course—that was McKay’s gig. He was trying to cover up his efforts to wriggle a small knife blade he kept in his belt. It was slow going, but eventually he actually had it in his hand and could start cutting. He had freed both hands and arms, chatting aimlessly to himself and ostensibly the guard all the while, when the ship was suddenly rocked by a giant explosion. The knife in his hand slipped and cut into his shoulder, and the guard was thrown bodily into the wall across from them.

            “That—is not—sanitary!” John growled with pain as he hurriedly wrenched himself free of the rest of the slimy, fibrous stuff, keeping the knife carefully away from his body. It was important he do so while his guard was still dazed on the floor, if he wanted to keep the advantage. He leapt (stumbled) out of the mess and straight to the guard, and was able to steal his weapon and stun him before the drone recovered.

            He gave himself a moment to pant and grimace at his shoulder (It really was unsanitary; he would need to wash the slime out of it soon or risk some kind of Wraithy infection, probably. He’d had enough of those). Then he jogged down the hall to collect his equipment from the guard room that, in his experience of Hive ships, was usually… there. He ducked in and out with his stuff, unseen. Evidently, whatever was still rocking the ship with minor explosions was taking up everyone’s attention.

            Armed and free, John slid into a niche off a hallway to plan his next move. “All dressed up and nowhere to go,” he murmured under his breath, his eyes and ears on hyper-alert for any passing patrols.  He had to assume the guard he’d stunned would be found any minute now. He heard stomping feet coming his way and pressed himself further into the crevice, grateful for the darkness of his clothes.

            “They should not have incurred our wrath,” one of two Wraith growled, “Now that their true hand is shown, they must be destroyed. Intrusion on another’s feeding ground is unforgivable.”

            “Was it not us who threatened them? It was not wise to provoke them; our numbers are still too few, and too unfed.” The other Wraith seemed no more calm, but definitely more consternated. They both were too distracted to notice a thing as they strode past John’s hiding place.

            “Speak carefully,” the first Wraith warned, “Or I will have you up for treason after we crush these latest…” Their voices trailed off down the hall, along with the sound of their footsteps.

            So, it was this old song and dance; rabid dogs fighting over a food bowl. If, you know, the food was sentient and had parents and children and friends. Sheppard shook his head in disgust.

            With the two Hives practically eliminating each other, there was really only one choice from here. John turned left at the fork and started cautiously making his way to where he knew the Dart hangar must be. When this kind of thing started feeling familiar, he told himself, something was going wrong with his life. It almost made him smile when he had the thought that this ‘routine mission’ almost was a routine mission.

            But actually, it really wasn’t funny. And the Andorians who had tried to trade him to the Wraith in return for safety? Were definitely blacklisted. If they weren’t already eaten. Which was another sobering thought. _Well, we wouldn’t want to be driving non-sober, now would we children?_

            There was no one guarding the Hangar, which John was simultaneously relived and offended by. Wraith security was awful. It was a relatively simple matter, tiptoeing his way into one of the few darts left.

            Now this, this was the hard part. Man, he hated flying these things. Yeah it was a good skill, vital in fact, but everyone kept acting like—like it was just another plane or something. “Sure, it’s just another plane, John,” he muttered to himself, looking over the cockpit to reacquaint himself. “One with no windows or labels or intuitive controls. And now you’re talking to yourself.”

            He shook his head sharply into focus and arranged his hands the way they were… probably supposed to go. It worked for him, anyway, as he took off whining into the inky pinpricked vacuum of space.

            It was bedlam absolute. He had to dodge at least 10 shots from the opposing Hive just in the first 30 seconds, before he could get far enough away to safely play dead or crippled. He just wanted no one to pay attention to him, and he let his Dart drift at a strange angle away from the battle. For a while, he couldn’t see a planet, which would be… well, very bad, but then it dawned from behind the bulk of the Hive he was now drifting away from.

            It didn’t look super hospitable, very terraformed-Mars, but it was still beautiful to him for what it meant: he wasn’t stranded. Now he just had to find… ah, there. An orbiting Stargate; how convenient. It was activated already, a standard Wraith tactic, but that was okay because he needed to play dead long enough to make sure that everyone else was before he booked it out of here.

            Twenty minutes later, he was getting twitchy. The wound on his left shoulder was itching, though he’d wrapped it up as best as he could, and he had to keep stopping his leg from jogging. Space battles were slower than they seemed when you were in the thick of it. And it was clear by now that though neither Hive was going to get out of this without being crippled and bleeding to death, they were going to fight to the last man—or, well, Wraith. John couldn’t risk getting noticed, and boredom was no reason to.

            He took a deep breath and let it go, methodically flexing his muscles a group at a time, the way they taught you in flight school to improve focus and circulation. He tried to settle in, but it was hard when you couldn’t even really see what was going on—just interpret the interface readouts and sit tight.

            He resorted to a tactic he hadn’t used for a while. Usually in a crisis he preferred to strategize and plan escape regardless of circumstance, but here, he couldn’t afford to be too keyed up if he wanted to be on his top game, so he leaned back and let his mind wander.

            Set free, it went right back to where he wished he was: Atlantis. Atlantis had become more of a home to him than anywhere he’d ever been; even his childhood home was cold and echoed with too much space, and once he was in the military he was constantly moving. Nancy used to say he only felt at home in the sky, first as a joke and more bitterly in the end. She would have found this situation ironic, then.

            But Atlantis—it had the thrill of exploration and purpose _all the time_. Its very existence was mind blowing. He belonged there like he’d never belonged anywhere, and even the doors and fixtures acted like it. More importantly: the people there acted like it.

            Sure, it’d been hard in the beginning. He still had nightmares about shooting Colonel Sumner and he wasn’t sure Sergeant Bates would ever fully forgive him for not being the by-the-book, old school CO he’d been expecting. But with Elizabeth above him and Lorne below, he’d never been happier in the chain of command. The sheer competency around him was dazzling.

            And where generally his people were colleagues or friends, his _team_ —in his team he’d found an unexpected family. Who would’ve known, when he’d first met Teyla and bravado-ed his way into having tea, that she would become so important to him? She was his closest ally, his most trustworthy counselor. An older sister.

            Ronon he hadn’t known as long, but he was definitely a kindred spirit. No blather, all ‘actions speak loudest’ and ‘loyalty prevails.’ Sure, he had his issues from being on the run for seven years, but who wouldn’t? He was passionate about killing the Wraith, knew how military worked, and was becoming more dedicated to the team every day they proved he could trust them.

            Rodney… Rodney had been with him from the very, very start. From a hideous orange fleece and the surprise of his life. “Major, think about where we are in the Solar System,” he’d ordered—pure Rodney presumption—helped turn his life upside down and inside out and _better_. He was different from John in about a thousand ways; loud where John was quiet, awkward where John was suave, openly arrogant about his own skills where John preferred to be underestimated.

            At first that was all John could see, and sometimes it still grated a little. But everything had eased with familiarity, and by now, John could see like no one else all the things they had in common. Rodney might talk about being afraid a lot more, but he _was_ brave and he came through no matter what, just like John. They both hated BS, the reason why Rodney’s sometimes abrasive forthrightness secretly pleased John. And, hey, they could talk about comic books together. Rodney was his best friend. John missed him; he could use his problem-solving and comfortable banter right now.

            Sheppard missed his team, period. John thought about what might be happening on Atlantis right now, how much they might be missing him. It was hard for him to gauge. Elizabeth was definitely feeling it; she felt the weight of her leadership, her responsibility. It made Sheppard glad he didn’t have it. Ronon would trust him to come back, he was probably either eating or punching something, like always. Teyla would be making plans in case he did come back, plans in case he didn’t, and keeping everyone calm. Sheppard hoped everyone knew he would never give Atlantis away under torture, but he couldn’t blame them for worrying about it, and they were probably doing a lot of that.

            Rodney was harder to imagine; he was very predictable except when he wasn’t at all. He could be working furiously on tracking Sheppard down; he could be trying to convince Elizabeth or Teyla or Ronon to go after him; he could be inventing some Star Trek device to make more coffee, who knew. But John was pretty sure he hadn’t just brushed off John’s disappearance. He’d always had his back.

Unless everyone thought that John was still just off partying with the Andorians. He’d only missed… what, three check-ins now? Unless he’d been stunned a lot longer than usual. Either way, though, they had to be worried, right? Normally he hated these diplomatic things and would already be home. No matter how often Rodney predicted Kirkian behavior. John hated when he did that, that it meant he didn’t understand what was really important to John.

It was irrational to hope they were concerned; he was getting himself home alright either way. But he still… he wanted to think that they would miss him, if he was gone. The way he missed them now, at least. He didn’t want to think they would smile apologetically at him and bring out Colonel Caldwell as the replacement Base Military CO.

Well, now he was just being ridiculous. He probably had… reverse abandonment issues. If that was a thing. He shook his head sharply at himself and his dumb ideas, choosing to blame it on stunner after-effects. He should be good to leave soon anyways, he saw on the dart display; both Hive ships were completely crippled, and there were only one or two Darts that—yep. They’d just destroyed each other.

The Wraith were so good at taking each other out, sticking with it until they themselves were dead. Maybe they should think more about that angle of strategy. Cautiously taking the Helm again, John brought up power and flew towards the Stargate, flying slowly enough that he could still be taken as debris if anyone was still looking at sensor readings.

He couldn’t fly a Dart into Atlantis, for obvious reasons, so he dialed up an empty Beta site. It had been rejected for a back-up colony ages ago, since it was mostly sand with a little bit of poisonous snake, but it would do as a disembarkment place—all the sand could soften a potentially bumpy landing. He’d never got the hang of landing in these things. Probably because they weren’t meant to land anywhere other than their Hangar.

He dialed the address only once he was just outside of swoosh-distance, and then flew through. _Well, that was easier than usual_ , he was thinking as he came out the other end and straight into a wild sand-storm.

“Really?” he complained immediately, “Really?” He pulled a tight 180 as soon as he was clear enough to do so, already dialing in another address for another ‘gate on another world, one that was decidedly non-sandy. It was thick jungle, which is why it wasn’t his first choice, but… he was already through and there, anyway.

It was night-time on CY3-2111, but there were these bioluminescent flowers growing all over the trees, so there was enough visibility not to crash into anything. The biologists said they were for attracting night-feeders, bats and a planet-unique nocturnal bee. John used them to find a clearing just a few minutes away from the ‘gate, and landed as gently as possible—which is to say, not very. By the time he got out, he was pretty sure the Dart wouldn’t fly again, between battle scars, sand damage, and the bumps from landing near-blind.

He got some distance between him and the smoking vessel as quickly as possible, before sitting on a log to take a break and wait for the adrenaline shakes to go away. Used to riding these things out, he took some deep breaths and reminded himself of his destination: home. Soon enough he was level enough to start hiking, so he took his direction from the orientation of the Dart and took off.

It was a good thirty minutes of hiking in the hot moist dark before he saw the ‘gate through the trees, adorned with the trailing, glowing flowers. Sheppard sped up his pace a little, eager to reach it; unfortunately, right after that, he stepped in a hole in the dark and went down like a ton of bricks.

“Ow,” he announced politely to the forest around him. “Thanks for that, no really, I had no plans for the use of my ankle!” his voice rose in frustration, but he was already struggling up and testing out how much weight it could take. He didn’t think it was broken; just a sprain, probably.

He limped the last small distance to the DHD. In this case, it really would be a Dial Home Device. He rapidly pressed his favorite combination of symbols, relying on his right hand; his left was tucked close to his chest now, to favor the knife wound. As the Swoosh formed and settled into the Puddle, he fumbled for and found the IDC he kept in an inner shirt pocket. He sewn it there himself, tired of losing it and wary of having it stolen after experiencing the first and the consequences of the second too many times.

He found it and pressed to activate the radio beacon, and waited for the beep that said it was acknowledged and he wouldn’t be squashed into a pulp by an activated shield. The wait seemed longer than it probably was; it always did, but here, the threat of no answer was a lot harsher. He was limping, he shoulder was still bleeding sluggishly beneath the scrap of fabric he had wound around it, and he felt his isolation keenly. At this point, regardless of the reaction, he just wanted to get home, wanted Rodney to take back his position of naturally filling the silence that stretched with every second now.

Finally the beep sounded, making John jump even though he was listening for it. With it, and the realization that he was really safe, that he was going home, came a wave of exhaustion that made him weave softly as he approached the ‘gate. His limp made him halting and ages slow. He felt childishly hopeful that Rodney would be there. _Adrenaline crash,_ some corner of his mind observed as he stumbled through.

It was a rapid change in environment, from a dark silent forest to a bustling military base full of color and light and chatter. It was too much to focus on all at once, the slight roar of increased activity at his appearance making his head swim as he turned it back and forth, trying to keep track of everything. _Blood loss, too,_ that same cool voice added.

He refused to fall over in front of everyone right there in the ‘gate room; that determination was the only thing keeping him upright, and he could tell it wouldn’t last much longer. He put a hand out, blindly looking for support. He felt a warm shoulder under his fingers, and when it ducked under his arm leaned into it instinctively. “Always have to make a dramatic entrance, right?” Griped a voice close to his ear, overriding the other alarmed voices around him.

“Rodney,” he realized muzzily, and felt himself smile a little.

“Yeah, laugh it up, Sheppard,” grumbled Rodney, but there was clear worry in his voice, which made John feel a little warmer. Why was it so cold in here, anyway? “Listen, Carson is on his way right now, but it would help if we knew what was wrong.”

“Blood loss,” Sheppard recited mechanically. Or was it adrenaline crash? “And ankle,” he added in a murmur. Stupid hole.

“Blood loss?” Rodney’s voice shot up, making the whole hall go quieter, which John was grateful for, and then prodding at his shoulder, which he was very ungrateful for. He whined in protest and let his head slowly tilt, tilt, tilt until it was resting against that warm, firm shoulder. Rodney was so _solid_. Rodney cared that he was home.

John could hear Rodney calling his name, but it seemed to come from far away, and getting farther. His eyes slipped closed, and he let them.

 

 

When he next regained consciousness he tensed up immediately, ready for more struggle, more survival. Carson was there, though, to tell him he was just in the infirmary, that they were taking care of him, that everything would be fine. His brogue was as soothing as ever, but John was distracted by shouting in the hall outside. It sounded like Rodney, and he was still trying to make out words when he slipped back into blackness.

 

 

He felt a lot more clear-headed when he woke up next; could see that he was out of the trauma area and into the recup section of Atlantis’ infirmary. He smiled up at the familiar ceiling. It was good to be home.

“H-hey,” said a voice, and he turned his head to see Rodney again, sitting in a chair at his bedside. He looked torn between concern and fury. “I’m not allowed to yell at you or they’ll throw me out—they wouldn’t let me in till this morning, can you believe it?—but,” he held up a single finger, “If you ever do that to me again, I’ll… kill you myself.”

John looked at him skeptically. Secretly he was touched, not only by the sentiment, but by the illogic of it: it was a rarity in the always-intellectual Dr. McKay. In fact, wait for it… “Oh, you know what I mean!” Rodney said.

Rodney checked himself, looking surreptitiously around for doctors. He tried to give John a scorching glare afterwards, but it was belied by the way he scooted his chair closer. “I’m fine, Rodney,” John said in as reassuring a way as possible. Rodney responded only by rolling his eyes as fiercely as possible, choosing not to dignify it with an actual reply.

“Seriously!” John said, wincing when it came out a little hoarse.

“Right, of course,” Rodney said scathingly, “You only collapsed onto me right after coming through the gate two days after missing a check-in.”

“I didn’t collapse!” John protested, “I… passed out.”

“What, from manly _blood loss?_ ” Rodney snapped, but John could see him relax slightly at the familiarity of the joke. Then he made a smug face, and it was John’s turn to relax. They were back in familiar territory. “Besides, as your medical proxy, I am free to inform you that your medical report does, in fact, say ‘collapsed.’”

Oh, right. They’d exchanged medical proxy forms a few months ago. Elizabeth and Carson had both acted surprised when they filed them, but it made perfect sense to Sheppard: they were both likelier than most to need one, and he trusted Rodney more than anyone else.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sheppard said, “That’s what happens when you get captured by the Wraith.” Glancing down, he was grateful to see and feel that most of the cocoon stickiness had been cleaned off him. He still really wanted a shower, though.

Rodney blanched. “The Wraith? How did the Wraith show up? Did they… did they do anything to—“

“I just got stunned and cocooned,” John reassured him, “I think they were saving me for after they fought with another Hive for eating rights to the planet that had just sold me out in exchange for their safety.”

Rodney sat back a little, processing. “Well, obviously not just,” he pointed out. “Carson said that was a knife wound on your shoulder.”

John winced. “Actually, uh… that’s from my knife. There was some turbulence from the battle as I was cutting myself out of the cocoon, and… it slipped.”

Rodney looked at him very flatly for a minute, but then seemed to give up and just shook his head. “Of course it did. Whatever, you’re back now. Carson had to give you a few blood transfusions, he wrapped your sprained ankle, and cleaned and stitched your self-inflicted wound. He said the substance in it, Wraith cocoon slime I guess, had some chemicals with slight sedative properties, so it may have gotten into your bloodstream and contributed to the fatigue and lower inhibitions when you came through the ‘gate.” Rodney looked down at that last part, blushing a little.

John frowned. “I didn’t… make you uncomfortable, did I?” Rodney rubbed at the back of his neck and gave him a tortured glance, but John continued doggedly. “Because, I wasn’t trying to… I don’t want you to… be uncomfortable. Around me. I was just… really tired. And apparently hemorrhaging.” He made himself stop talking.

“Of course I wasn’t uncomfortable, except insofar as having you bleed to death in my arms would make me uncomfortable,” Rodney replied, obviously trying to be as indignant as possible. “Only you, John Sheppard, would worry about others’ comfort after narrowly escaping the jaws of death.”

“Well, I seem to do it often enough,” John joked.

“So?” Rodney said in that blunt, sharp way of his, and John was shocked and embarrassed to feel tears welling up in his eyes. He turned his head sharply away, fighting them back. He would have tried to say something flippant back, but he found he couldn’t speak. He cleared his throat roughly. “John?” Rodney sounded worried, trying to peer around to see his face.

Under a little more control, John faced the ceiling again. “Thanks, Rodney,” he said roughly. “Just… thanks.”

“What for?” Rodney sounded softer and genuinely baffled, and it made John chuff in amusement.

“Just for… for caring, I guess.” John kept staring fixedly at the ceiling, deciding to blame any feelings talk on drugs (whether he was on them currently or not).

Then Rodney made a small, ironic noise that John didn’t like the sound of at all. When he looked at him, Rodney’s face was screwed up in a strange, half-amused, half-miserable expression that John had never seen before. He had no idea where it was coming from, either. Did Rodney hate talking about this stuff that much? He normally was a huge talker… “Rodney?” he ventured, too worried about that expression to let it lie.

Rodney made that noise again. “Nothing, or you’re welcome I guess, it’s just—“ He stopped for a moment and looked down. “It’s just ironic, I guess. This… this whole conversation is.”

John waited for him to continue. After a few minutes of silence, he prompted, “How so?” It was really unlike Rodney to dance around an issue. He was starting to get worried. When Rodney still didn’t answer he started to prop himself up on his elbows, a little weakly, and that spurred Rodney on.

“Alright, okay, don’t do that, I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you,” Rodney pressed him back down with all his normal fluster, and John lay back, waiting with trepidation. “It’s ironic that you don’t want to make me uncomfortable, and that you’re grateful I care, because…” he paused, took a deep breath before the dive, “Because I’ve been trying not to make _you_ uncomfortable with my caring for a long time now. I care _too_ much. I… have feelings for you John.”

John felt shell shocked. More shocked than that, in fact, given how often he’d been in war zones. He had enough presence of mind, though, to reach out and grab Rodney’s wrist when he tried to edge away. He just needed… to process. Abruptly, he realized Rodney should know that. “I just need to process,” he explained.

Rodney just sat, silent and still and unnatural. John _hated_ it, but… he couldn’t mess this up, he had to _think_ somehow. He closed his eyes, fingers still clasped tight around Rodney’s wrist. The bones felt delicate in his grip. He closed his eyes and thought hard. He thought of all the time he’d spent with Rodney, all the things he’d felt about him, all the ways he probably should have seen this coming. He thought of the future, and all the things that could go wrong. His head swam with it all.

In the end, it all distilled down to one thing, one image he kept coming back to: all the world dizzy and noisy and spinning around him, with Rodney strong under his arm, holding him up, warm under his head, speaking into his ear, keeping him grounded. Grounded, a word that always meant prison to him, turned into something safe and freeing.

Eyes still closed, he tugged at Rodney, scooting over on the bed to make room to pull him onto it. Rodney went, pliant and quiet, and John rested his head on his shoulder, pulling his scatter-shot thoughts together. “Rodney…” he started, and felt him tense up , “You’re… you’re home to me. You’re the place I’ll always come back to. I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone, we challenge each other, we have fun together. I think you know, and I’ll be honest, I haven’t thought of you in a physical way before…” he paused thoughtfully, burrowed further into Rodney’s broad shoulder and inhaled the scent of him, “But I don’t think that’s because I can’t, just because… I was focused on all the other ways we connect, and all the other kinds of physicality required of me here. I think that I could. I know that you’re attractive. And most important of all… I do know I have feelings for you too.”

Rodney’s arms came tight around him, and his chin tucked over his head before changing so that Rodney could bury his nose in his hair. After a moment, he spoke. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk so much outside of a briefing.”

John snorted. “And I’ve never heard you be so quiet for so long, including in meetings.” He slung an arm around to fit snug around Rodney’s waist.

There was another moment of comfortable silence, and John started to feel sleepy. “So we take it slow?” Rodney finally asked, murmuring. John smiled and leaned up to take his mouth in a kiss. It was simple, but warm and soft, and John already felt a spark run straight through him. He pulled back and slowly grinned into Rodney’s sharp ocean blue eyes.

“Yeah,” he drawled, “But not _too_ slow.”


End file.
